


Color Me Blind

by wordaddiction



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Actor AU, Actor!Enjolras, Barista!Grantaire, Bickering, M/M, Rocky Starts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2733932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordaddiction/pseuds/wordaddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire meets him on a Sunday. He remembers this because Sunday has always been his least favorite day of the week (what with the imminent arrival of the next one), and meeting him then is so disgustingly perfect.</p><p>Or, the AU in which Enjolras is a Hollywood actor and Grantaire doesn't give a single shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I ordered cream."

Grantaire meets him on a Sunday. He remembers this because Sunday has always been his least favorite day of the week (what with the imminent arrival of the next one), and meeting him then is so disgustingly perfect.

He wants to shoot himself.

Okay, he doesn’t really want to shoot himself, but he thinks he might be getting close, because Enjolras is standing in front of him with his arms crossed and his lips all bunched up into an annoying little grimace and really, it’s too early for this shit.

“I ordered cream,”

“Well excuse me,” Grantaire says as he finishes punching in the next person’s order. He gave up trying to be civil towards stuck-up customers a long time ago.

“And this is the third time you’ve given me a coffee without cream this month,”

Grantaire lifts a brow. “Maybe you should start ordering them without cream, and my tendency to mess things up will ensure you get your watered down coffee,”

Enjolras makes a noise in the back of his throat and Grantaire thinks he might punch him.

“Could I have what I ordered, please?”

“Give me a minute,”

Grantaire finishes the next person’s order, then takes the man’s cup from him without looking up. He walks out from behind the counter, goes up to the little bar near the door, and very deliberately pours a dash of cream into the cup. When he turns around, he’s wearing his eyelids low and his mouth is in a straight line as he holds it out to the man.

“Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” Grantaire agrees, and goes back behind the counter. The man tucks a stray strand of curly blonde hair behind his ear, and Grantaire sighs internally. It isn’t fair that all of the hot ones are assholes.

“You could have just said,” the man mutters.

“Have a nice day,” Grantaire is already cleaning out the coffee pot. As soon as the asshole leaves, he can take his pseudo-break. There isn’t anyone else in the shop right now, so he does have to stay in the front, but he’s looking forward to a particular muffin that he made earlier for just this occasion.

Grantaire looks up and realizes that the man is still standing there, his fierce features all contorted into a scowl, when the door dings open and two girls filter in. Really, this just isn’t fair.

The shorter of the two is about to place her order when her friend taps her arm hurriedly and points towards the blonde who hasn’t left yet.

“Is that…?”

“Oh my god!”

She walks up to him tentatively. “You’re Enjolras, aren’t you? You were in those films?”

The blonde opens his mouth, then closes it and nods. The girl squeals. “Could I get a picture with you?”

“Oh, I don’t really—“

“Please? My friends’ll never believe I met you,”

Enjolras sighs and shrugs, then stands through a torturous selfie with the two girls. Grantaire watches with a small smirk, his towel still moving mindlessly in the empty coffee pot. Enjolras catches his eye.

When the girls leave, Grantaire finally places the pot on the counter and leans forward.

“Movie star, huh?” he says.

“I guess you could say that,” Grantaire laughs because he knows it’s supposed to be impressive. And okay, maybe it _is_ a bit impressive, but the guy was still a dick, and Grantaire doesn’t have time for dicks.

“That explains a lot,” he mentions, then pulls back and continues to work.

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire waves ambiguously. “How big of a prick you are. You’re exactly how I expect an actor to be,”

“Excuse me, is that really how you’re going to treat a paying customer?”

Grantaire just pauses and looks at him, as if to prove a point, but Enjolras grips his cup more tightly instead of realizing what he’s said.

“Is there something else you needed?”

The actor clenches his lips together and shakes his head.

“Have a nice day, then,” Grantaire smiles as he repeats himself.

Enjolras sets his jaw. “Likewise,” he hisses, and nearly stomps out the door.

Grantaire wishes that were the last time he saw him.


	2. "Careful. Your assholery is showing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were all so lovely about the first little bit, I actually really wanted to just get on with it. So here it is! A bit more for you all!

The second time Grantaire sees Enjolras, he’s got his hair piled up in a bun and his apron has paint all over it. He wouldn’t blame anyone for wrinkling their nose up at the sight, except it’s _him_ , and suddenly he’s very offended.

“Fancy meeting you again,” he mutters, grabbing a can of paint off the shelf. He’s working on a project for class, and none of the art stores are open this late. He knows he shouldn’t be using wall paint on canvas, but this is important and it’s only a base color.

“You look…tired,”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says dryly. “I’m flattered,”

“What are you painting?” Enjolras shifts his basket over to the other arm and tries to study the can Grantaire is holding. He pulls it close and hides the label.

“Nothing that concerns you. What are you even doing here? Don’t you have servants to do all your dirty work for you?” he says, eyeing the screws and wood in his basket.

“I’m an actor, not a self-righteous bigot,”

“Could have fooled me,”

Enjolras scowls and clenches his fingers around the handles. He looks like he’s perpetually about to leave, but never quite makes the decision to turn around.

Grantaire starts walking toward the checkout and Enjolras follows.

“Can I help you?” the artist snaps as he spins to glare at the blonde, who sets his jaw and squares his shoulders. Grantaire wishes he were taller than him.

“Why don’t you like me?” he demands, and Grantaire feels like leaving without a response. But he’s Grantaire, it’s nearly midnight, and he’s already exhausted from being up late at the coffee shop last night. So of course there’s a response.

“Why should I?”

“I hate when people answer questions with questions,” Enjolras grimaces.

“And I hate when people expect everyone to like them,”

“I don’t expect everyone to—“

“Then why do you care that I don’t? I’m just some guy that takes your coffee order. You never have to see me again, if you don’t want to. And I sincerely hope you don’t want to,” Grantaire starts to turn, but Enjolras grabs his elbow and he’s startled into looking down at where their skin is touching. He blinks a couple of times, as if still unsure that what he’s seeing is real.

“Because,” Enjolras mumbles. “You have no reason not to, and I don’t like being despised without cause,”

“You’re an asshole,” Grantaire explains graciously. “You annoyed me, and I work twelve hour night shifts, so I’m not really the most forgiving person by the time that you come in,”

Now it’s Enjolras who blinks.

“Why do you work so many hours?”

At this, Grantaire throws his head back and lets out a hearty laugh. A few of the cashiers turn their heads. “Spoken like a man who makes millions off of a single project.” He rolls his eyes. “Some of us are not so fortunate, and have to work for our money,”

“I _do_ work for my money,” Enjolras argues.

“Hardly,”

“Like you know how much work goes into making movies,”

Grantaire grabs a Five Hour Energy from the shelf by the register, then grabs another as an afterthought. He’s going to have to get some sleep at some point, he just isn’t entirely sure when. And Enjolras is _still talking to him._

“I’m sure it’s backbreaking labor, getting your hair and makeup done and reading some lines from a script,”

“Have you even _seen_ any of my movies?” Enjolras crosses his arms.

“I don’t have time to watch movies, Enjolras. I didn’t even know who you were before last week,”

“How?”

Grantaire lifts a brow as he places his things on the counter. “Are you serious?”

“No, I mean—It’s just that the movies I’ve been in recently have gotten so popular. I do interviews, I’m on posters,”

“Careful, your assholery is showing,”

Enjolras purses his lips together and Grantaire can’t help but feel he’s won. It’s dicks like this who make him want to become a recluse, and having the chance to shut one of them up is a treat. He pays for his things.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly. He looks like he’s trying to decide whether he’s angry or sorry, and Grantaire isn’t really sure if he cares, either way.

“Right. Well. General tips for the future: Don’t tell people that they look tired. Don’t assume everyone is going to grovel at your feet just because you happen to have been gifted in the looks department and you make a shit ton of money. And don’t be an ignorant fuck,”

Enjolras takes his bag from the cashier and pockets his change, and Grantaire realizes with anger that it’s nearly midnight on a weekday and he still looks like he just walked out of a fashion catalogue. He glances down at his own dirty smock and grimaces. He knows it’s just evidence towards where each of their priorities lie, but still. It isn’t fair. Nothing’s fair, really.

“You’re infuriating,” Enjolras tells him, and Grantaire grins like he’s just won the lottery.

“Thank you,”

Enjolras looks at him curiously as they exit the home repair store, and Grantaire waits for him to end the conversation. When he doesn’t, he sighs.

“Alright, well. Have a nice life,”

“You’re so sure we won’t meet again,” Enjolras laughs, and it almost sounds pretty. Almost.

“I don’t know why we would, unless you insist on getting coffee from the Musain when there are literally dozens of other places you could go,”

Enjolras shrugs. “You’re on my way to the set,” he explains, and Grantaire doesn’t think he’ll ever get rid of him.

“Well, then. Have a nice night, and I look forward to the next time I am graced with your almighty presence. I only hope I am worthy to serve you your morning beverage of choice,”

“Are you walking home?”

Grantaire is startled by the question, as he’s already backed up and is beginning to walk down the sidewalk.

“Why do you ask?”

“You did it again. You answered my question with a question,”

“I’m an inquisitive person,” Grantaire smirks. “But yes. I am walking home. What does it matter?”

“I could give you a ride,” Enjolras offers. Grantaire studies him, as if he might find something different now that he’s put some distance between them. He looks ethereal in the pale glow of the parking lot lights, his hair a golden halo around his head. He thinks it might fall off if tugged too hard.

“No, thanks,” Grantaire answers.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t want one,”

Enjolras looks put out, and Grantaire wonders if anyone’s ever said no to him before.

“Fine,”

“Fine,”

When Grantaire gets home, he’s so angry that people as egotistical as Enjolras exist, he finishes his project in half the time he thought it would take. He lays in bed, brooding over the matter, and before he knows it it’s time to get up for work.

“Seriously?” he says when Enjolras walks in.

“Medium coffee,” Enjolras says.


	3. "Then can I have Grantaire?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meh

Grantaire knows having a degree in art is next to useless. He knows because he was told repeatedly by his parents, coupled with the threat of them not paying for his schooling. As it happened, Grantaire was very good at doing useless things, and so decided to pursue the idea regardless of the lack of support.

For the most part, he loves it. Despite what people say, focused study really does make an artist better. So maybe he can’t feasibly do anything with his degree after he graduates. Maybe he’ll work at the Musain forever. Maybe he’ll drown in student loan debt for the rest of his life. At least he’ll have better art to show for it.

It’s in his Contemporary Studies class that he realizes he hates everything. They’ve already started their unit on stage makeup and costuming, which Grantaire will readily admit is more fun than he originally thought it would be. What he didn’t realize was that part of this unit involved interning at a local film set.

A girl beside him shrieks when the professor explains the assignment. Another’s eyes grow to the size of full moons. Grantaire drums his pen against the table.

“You mean, we get to talk to the actors and everything?” a boy with an impressive faux-hawk asks.

“Not only that, you’ll be practicing on them,” the professor grins, as if she’s just given them all a gift.

A wild murmur erupts in the room, and Grantaire isn’t even thinking about the inevitable until someone else brings it up for him.

“Does that mean we’ll be practicing on Enjolras?”

“What? Enjolras is in this movie?” the girl who shrieked snaps her head around. Her voice sounds more like a squeak than anything.

“I think so!”

Grantaire’s first thought is how stupid it is that Enjolras only goes by his last name. For fuck’s sake, it’s not like he’s Madonna or Beyoncé, he hasn’t earned the one-name-alias. His second thought is that he really, truly hopes that his excited classmates are wrong about the movie.

They aren’t.

When they get there, it’s all bustle and high-energy and too many snack tables. They’re given a tour, on which there are a few celebrity sightings, and afterwards Grantaire feels like he’s fallen in with a bunch of schoolgirls. He keeps his head down and his hands wrapped around the strap of his supply bag, half because he doesn’t want to reduce himself to the idiocy that some of his classmates already have around the stars, and half because there is one in particular that he’d rather not come in contact with.

He’s doing a pretty good job of it, too. It’s been an hour, and Enjolras is nowhere to be found. The chair with his name on it is empty, the actors who are rehearsing their lines haven’t seen him. Grantaire thinks maybe he’s lucked out, maybe Enjolras is sick, when the man himself steps out of a trailer. He looks unreal. The sun is kissing his cheeks and illuminating his hair in a way that would make any artist’s fingers itch. Grantaire nearly reaches for his paints right there.

There is a hush throughout their group, and then an explosion of hurried whispering, tapping and pointing. The chaos attracts the actor’s attention, and Grantaire wishes he could hide behind something—anything. He shifts slowly to the back of the group.

“Enjolras! Come here, meet your styling team for the day!” the tour guide calls. Grantaire feels his heart sink as the man descends the steps and makes his way over to the crowd. “They’re here from the university as interns,”

“Ah, hi,” Enjolras says, eyes skimming the group. He smiles and Grantaire hears five different girls take a deep breath. He’s still watching the way his lips are curved up slightly more on one side than the other when Enjolras’ eyes meet his. It seems his smile grows even more, and Grantaire feels an angry blush spread to his cheeks.

“So I’ll be splitting you up. Half will go with Denise, to study hair and makeup. The other half will go with Georgie, to work on costumes. Any questions?”

“I have one.” Everyone turns to watch Enjolras, who has his hand raised like a proper school boy and looks absolutely ridiculous. They all swoon anyway. “Does it matter who goes where?”

Their professor appraises him with mild amusement, then shakes her head. “It’s random,”

“Then can I have Grantaire?” he grins. Grantaire wants to punch him.

Another eruption of whispers occurs, only this time the secretive glances are directed towards the artist, not the actor.

Grantaire really, really wants to punch him.

“Um…sure,” the professor says. “Grantaire, you didn’t tell me you knew Enjolras,”

He clenches his fists around the strap of his bag and stares. “I don’t,”

After they’ve all been separated and assigned to specific actors to try the makeup designs, Grantaire finds himself in the same trailer that Enjolras stepped out of earlier. He’s standing with his arms crossed as Enjolras sits down in front of the mirror.

“Why the hell would you do that to me?”

Enjolras looks at him like he hasn’t done a thing wrong in his life.

“I know you. It makes sense for you to get paired with me,”

“You’d rather have a man who has explicitly told you that he doesn’t like you put things on your face than a stranger who absolutely adores you?”

“I trust you,” Enjolras says, and it makes Grantaire even angrier.

“ _Why?_ ”

Instead of answering, Enjolras spins around and faces the mirror. “Are you going to start, or not?”

Grantaire watches him a moment, then sighs and lays out his toolkit.

“I didn’t know you were studying to be a stylist,” Enjolras mentions as Grantaire begins priming his face.

“I’m not. I’m studying to be a painter, and this just happened to be one of my course requirements. Stop moving,”

Enjolras presses his lips together and watches Grantaire through the mirror. He’s always hated when people watch him work. It’s what Eponine calls a “Grantairism.” It makes him feel like he’s got to prove something with his art, like he’s got to be beautiful while trying to create beauty, and that was never the point. Now, it’s inescapable, but he still feels offended by the careful stare.

“Could you stop?”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me,”

“What else is there to look at?” Enjolras tilts his head to the side and Grantaire tips it back with his fingers.

“Anything,”

Enjolras makes a strange little “hmph” noise and tries focusing on the clock on the back wall. Grantaire is amazed how gorgeous he looks with a little bit of makeup. It’s all natural looking, browns and pinks that dust over his abnormally defined cheekbones and rouge his lips enough to make them seem fresh and kissable. Grantaire thinks men should wear makeup more often. Or maybe just Enjolras.

By the time he’s finished, Grantaire has gotten so used to the way Enjolras’ cheek feels against his palm as he works, he’s reluctant to draw back. He wasn’t expecting his skin to be so smooth, but it feels like he just grew it right there and then. When he finally steps away, he appraises the actor in the mirror.

“What do you think?”

Enjolras opens his eyes and turns his head from side to side, his eyes skimming every bit of his own face.

“It’s pretty good,” he nods.

“Just ‘pretty good’?”

The actor shrugs and gets up. “Well, you didn’t expect to be a professional on your first day, did you?”

“Unbelievable,” Grantaire shakes his head and starts stuffing things back into his bag.

“Come on, you can’t actually be offended by that. What, did you want me to tell you it’s the best I’ve ever seen?”

“No, I just—“

“It’s _good_. For someone who doesn’t want to go into the industry, it’s _really_ good,” he reasons.

“Okay,” Grantaire slings his bag over his shoulder and stops in front of Enjolras. “May I be excused, Your Grace?” he drawls.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay,”

“Bye,” he mutters.

“See you tomorrow,” Enjolras replies, and Grantaire doesn’t even bother to argue.

 


	4. "It's a gesture."

Grantaire is having a bad day. To be fair, most days are bad days for Grantaire, thanks to his uncanny ability to find the worst in any situation, but today is particularly bad.

“How the fuck did you mess up a _third_ order?” Eponine hisses, handing the perturbed customer her correct drink.

“She mumbled!”

“She didn’t mumble,” Eponine grabs the coffee pot out of the machine and shoves it towards Grantaire, who scowls and begins cleaning it with his towel. “I don’t have time for this today,”

There’s a whole line of customers trailing through the café, and Grantaire knows that’s good. He knows it means more tips and a greater possibility of him having a job at the end of the season, but it’s still entirely too exhausting. He prefers fiddling with the music in the shop, occasionally wiping down tables that haven’t really been used, and sneaking free cups of coffee. Today, that isn’t an option.

Eponine demotes Grantaire to handling the baked goods so he doesn’t mess up any more coffee orders, which is honestly a bit ridiculous, given how often he runs the café by himself. He’s only a few minutes into slicing pound cake when he hears.

“I’m sorry, we’re too busy to take requests,” Eponine says, and Grantaire can tell it’s her, ‘I’m-good-at-being-nice-but-you’re-really-trying-my-patience’ voice. He only glances up when he hears the response.

“I understand, but I really need to tell Grantaire something,”

Grantaire makes eye contact with Enjolras. He’s rigid, the knife paused just above the loaf and his lips pressed together. The actor was already here this morning. There is absolutely no reason for him to be here again, and there’s _definitely_ no reason for him to insist that Grantaire make his drinks.

“Grantaire’s working. You can tell him after his shift ends,”

“When does his shift end?”

“At eight,”

“But he worked all last night. Isn’t it illegal for him to work that long?”

At that, Grantaire drops the knife on the counter and stalks around to the front of the shop. He grabs Enjolras’ arm and drags him out the door without even bothering to give Eponine an apologetic glance.

“What the hell is your problem?” he demands. Enjolras rubs his arm and looks like he’s never been so offended.

“I wanted to tell you something,”

“What is it?” he spits.

A smile creeps onto Enjolras’ face and he looks like he’s got a secret. Grantaire hates it. He hates that this man is a heartthrob to millions of teenagers and he’s standing right in front of him using his stupid heartthrob powers to look gorgeous, even when Grantaire is unequivocally angry with him.

“The studio wants to hire you,” he says.

“What?”

“They really liked what you did last week, and my makeup artist just quit because of a family emergency. I suggested you, and they went with it,”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do. All of this is too much all at once and he doesn’t understand how he got here, standing in front of a man he hates, being offered a job. He tightens his arms, which are crossed in front of his chest.

“No thanks,” he says, then turns to go back inside. Enjolras grabs his shoulder and pulls him back.

“What do you mean, ‘no thanks’?”

“I mean, I don’t want the job. I have a job,”

“But this will pay more,” Enjolras reasons, searching Grantaire’s face for something that isn’t there. “I thought you’d be happy,”

“Well I’m not,” Grantaire pulls his arm away.

Enjolras furrows his brow, and something changes in his demeanor. “Listen,” he says, all the confusion gone from his voice. Grantaire is forced to oblige. “I know you don’t like me. I still don’t understand why, other than the fact that you hold ridiculous grudges, but that’s not the point. I did something nice for you. I got you a job, one that will require you to work fewer hours and get paid more. You could at least be a little grateful,”

Grantaire is lost for a second. His eyes have drifted towards Enjolras’ mouth, which is set firmly now, and his limbs refuse to move. It takes a moment to recover from the sudden shift, but when he does, he narrows his eyes.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,”

“I know! It was a gesture. I thought maybe you’d appreciate it,”

“I’m not going to get paid to doll you up for the big screen. You told me yourself that I’m only alright at it. I’m not even studying cosmetology, so why don’t you offer the job to one of the students who is?” Grantaire glances back inside and sees Eponine casting annoyed glances at him from behind the counter, where she’s rushing around to do a three person job by herself. He makes a mental note to apologize to her later.

“Is that why you won’t take it? You don’t think you’re good enough?” Enjolras asks, and something about the question is softer than before.

Grantaire shrugs. “I want to produce good work. If I take that job, I won’t be able to be proud of the art that I create,”

Enjolras just stands there, blinking at the other man. After a pause that lasts longer than Grantaire deems comfortable, he sighs and takes the towel from his shoulder, shuffling backwards.

“Thanks anyway,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Enjolras says quietly. If Grantaire weren’t so frustrated with him, he might want to reach out and place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, anything to keep him from looking so heartbroken. But he is. So he doesn’t.

 

When Enjolras doesn’t stop in the next day, Grantaire is relieved. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he wipes down the counters and does not watch the door.

The day after that, Grantaire thinks maybe he should throw a party, seeing as he seems to finally be rid of the man.

The day after that, he shows up on set.

“You can’t come through here,” says a security guard. He’s big and hulking, and Grantaire thinks it’s amusing how stereotypical it is.

“I know Enjolras,” he tries, but the guard only laughs.

“You and everyone else, kid,”

Grantaire frowns because he doesn’t know how old Enjolras is, but it can’t be that much older than him, and he doesn’t appreciate how condescending the guy is being when Grantaire doesn’t even really want to be here.

“Grantaire?”

He never thought he’d be relieved to hear that voice.

“You know him?” the guard asks, raising an eyebrow.

Enjolras walks over to greet them. Without taking his eyes off of Grantaire, he says, “Yeah, of course. He’s my—he’s Grantaire,” and Grantaire sort of feels like turning around and leaving.

The guard huffs and lets him in, and Grantaire revels in the silence that fills their walk back to Enjolras’ trailer. It’s a stretch of time where he doesn’t have to explain himself, where he doesn’t have to be angry or happy. He just falls in line behind the actor and watches as their feet move in tandem. And then they’ve reached the room and Enjolras is turning around and he’s so expectant but his eyes are so blue that Grantaire forgets what he’s expecting.

“So hi,” Enjolras says when he doesn’t receive an immediate explanation.

“Hi,” Grantaire says.

They stare at each other.

“You haven’t been by the café,” Grantaire points out. Enjolras leans against the wall.

“I figured you’d be pleased,”

“Yeah,” Grantaire notes. He looks at the floor. “So did you fill the position?”

He doesn’t really know why he’s asking it. He hasn’t changed his mind.

“Yeah,” Enjolras replies. Grantaire notices the man’s eyes dragging up from his feet to his face, and his skin prickles from the scrutiny. He shifts his weight.

“That’s good,”

Enjolras nods.

Then, because the silence is unbearable and because Grantaire has the least amount of self-control than anyone he knows, he’s blurting out, “Can I try again?”

“Pardon?” Enjolras says, and god help him, he actually looks confused.

“Your makeup. Can I try again? What I did before, that was my first time. I can’t improve if I don’t practice,”

Enjolras is staring at him and Grantaire is just on the verge of not being able to handle it when the blonde walks over to the mirror slowly and sits down. He meets Grantaire’s eyes through the glass.

Wordlessly, the artist goes over and turns him around. He takes his time, fearful that any rushing would result in some sort of malfunction that will make this whole thing seem ridiculous. As if it doesn’t already. He lays out the materials Enjolras already has, fingers skimming the brushes and palettes. He hates that his hands are shaking.

When Grantaire bends over to rub the foundation into Enjolras’ skin, it’s different than before. This time, he’s looking at him again, but it’s less curious than intense. He remembers how he told Enjolras to stop before, and now he doesn’t feel he has the right. He rubs methodically, as if the more precise his circular motions are, the better his end product will be. Enjolras has stubble now.

Enjolras only shuts his eyes when Grantaire dusts the shadow on. It’s barely that, just a touch darker than his skin tone so that the creases of his lids are more prominent. He thinks about how thin eyelids are. He thinks about how he needs to hold his breath so Enjolras won’t feel how close their faces are. He spends a ridiculous amount of time running his thumb along the edges of the man’s skin, perfecting the evenness of it all.

Enjolras frowns when Grantaire reaches for the lip color, which he hadn’t before.

“Just let me try it,” he says, and Enjolras doesn’t say anything back, so Grantaire takes a tiny amount of pink on his finger and begins rubbing it into his lips. Except _fuck_ , he didn’t expect them to be so soft. He slows, working the color into every millimeter of the skin. He even keeps rubbing a bit after he knows he’s finished, just to prolong the feeling of actually wanting to be near Enjolras.

When he finally pulls away, he assesses his work. He tilts his head, and Enjolras looks at him like he’s reading a book.

“Are you proud of your work?” he asks.

And the thing is, Grantaire isn’t proud, though he knows he couldn’t have done a better job. The more he looks at Enjolras, the more he realizes that all of the beauty comes from him. He’s radiant without all of the powder and tints, without the creams and shadows. Anything that Grantaire’s done is only a trick of the light, and he can’t possibly be happy with himself when Enjolras is the one doing all of the work.

When he doesn’t say anything, Enjolras turns around and looks in the mirror. He stares at himself for a long time, and Grantaire can tell he’s trying to catch every nuance of his mask.

“It’s better,”

Grantaire lets out a breath. “Good,”

“A lot better,”

“Okay,”

Enjolras turns around. He stands up, and Grantaire takes a step back out of instinct.

“You can come back tomorrow, if you want,”

“Tomorrow?”

“To practice,” Enjolras explains, and Grantaire stuffs his hands in his pockets. He chews on the inside of his cheek as he looks up at the actor.

“I still don’t like you,” he warns.

“I know,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire nods, satisfied with the answer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,”

And that’s when he knows someone is trying to kill him, because Enjolras smiles, something which he has no business doing when he knows perfectly well how attractive he is and how much Grantaire despises how attractive he is. He has to focus all his energy on ripping his eyes away from the man, and that just isn’t fair.

Grantaire leaves wondering what he’s done to deserve this.


	5. "With pleasure."

Habit is a strange thing. Before, if you had asked Grantaire what he did in his spare time, he would have scoffed and immediately countered with, “What free time?” He barely had a minute to sleep, let alone relax or do something that he enjoyed. It’s an enigma, then, how he manages to stop by the movie set three times a week to practice on Enjolras.

The guards know him now. Two weeks into the arrangement, Enjolras gave him one of those laminated passes that allows entrance. Grantaire had laughed out loud, then quietly put it on when he realized the actor was serious. He saunters through the set and raps on Enjolras’ trailer, which always opens immediately thereafter. He paints Enjolras’ face. He gets better.

He knows he’s getting better because every time he finishes, Enjolras evaluates himself in the mirror longer than someone who’s just going to tell him what he wants to hear, then nods and says it’s an improvement. Except for one time, when Grantaire was having a bad day, and Enjolras pushed the brush away from his face and told him to come back when he was ready to work. That was when Grantaire got angry and went home, muttering about how Enjolras had no right to tell him when he’s really “working” or not.

He came back the next day when he realized that he did have the right.

Now, Grantaire is leaning against the wall, inspecting the shelf of books Enjolras has as the actor inspects his finished face. He smiles when he sees the selection, each of which is something outrageously intellectual, namely titles with Russian authors. And then there’s Harry Potter.

“It’s probably the best you’ve done,” Enjolras voices from the mirror. Grantaire turns to him and smiles.

“Well thank you, sir,” He bows theatrically and plops down on the small bed in the corner. It’s been a couple of days since he’s felt a mattress beneath him, and this one is heavenly.

Enjolras watches him. “You’re exhausted,” he notes.

“Nah,” Grantaire says. “Just wanted to sit down,”

Enjolras gets up and bends over to inspect Grantaire’s face, which catches him off guard. He needs time to prepare himself for all that radiance to be so close to him, else his body won’t be able to handle it and his heart might fail.

Not that Enjolras is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, or anything. He’s just really…nice looking.

“There are bags under your eyes,” Enjolras decides.

“Gee, thanks,”

“You need sleep,”

“I’ve heard rumors that I need food and shelter too, but I’m fairly certain they’re just myths,”

“Stop,” Enjolras demands, and for a moment, Grantaire is tempted to oblige him.

“Stop what, my dear Apollo? We can’t all escape human convictions as you’ve seemed to,”

Enjolras frowns and stands straight up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sleep,”

“I can’t tonight, I have a shift—“

“No, sleep now. Here,” He moves to turn out the light and there is a pounding in Grantaire’s head he can’t explain.

“I can’t sleep here!”

“Why not?”

“Because this is your…it’s…I’m not meant to be here!” he tries, but Enjolras is already dropping a blanket over him and pushing him down onto the bed. Grantaire’s skin prickles.

“I’ve got work to do, but I’ll be back in time to wake you up for your shift,” he assures.

“You’re leaving?” Grantaire hates the way his voice curls at the end, like he’s nervous. Like he doesn’t want him to leave.

If Enjolras notices, he doesn’t say anything, just pulls the blanket up toward Grantaire’s chin.

“You’ll be fine,”

“What if someone comes in here?”

“No one will come in here,”

Grantaire wants to fight more, to throw the blankets off and stalk off set, but the warmth of the covers is already settling into his limbs, and he can feel the onset of sleep lulling him. He blinks slowly at the man standing above him. He’s only a shadow now, a dimly lit silhouette of a man. But Grantaire can still see the line of his jaw and the pull of his lips as he smiles down at him. Grantaire thinks about kissing him.

It isn’t until Enjolras has left and closed the door that Grantaire realizes that he just thought about kissing him.

Grantaire brings Enjolras a cup of coffee with cream in it. It isn’t much, especially because there’re vats of coffee on set, but as far as Grantaire goes, it might as well be a leap and a bound all in one. He waves his card at the security guard and lopes over to Enjolras’ trailer.

He’s standing in front of it, trying to decide last minute if the coffee is too much and if Enjolras will get the wrong impression in his giving it to him, when he realizes there are voices coming from inside.

“I don’t see why it’s necessary,” says Enjolras, muffled, and Grantaire can tell he’s got his Determined face on.

“Come on, it won’t be so bad,” This voice is low and strong, and Grantaire doesn’t like it without knowing why.

“Still, it’s completely idiotic that we should have to do this just because they want us to,”

Grantaire shifts from foot to foot.

“Am I really such a pain to be around?” The voice is smiling.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that—“

“I know, Enjolras. It’s okay. Just hold my hand, kiss me every now and then. I’m a good kisser, I’ve been told,”

Grantaire frowns. He clutches the cup in his hand and stares at the door, as if it might swing open if he does so long enough. When the conversation gets too quiet to hear, he knocks.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, like he’s surprised. Why is he surprised? It’s their usual day at their usual time. It’s not like he’s ever not showed up when they agreed he would show up. It’s not like this has changed recently. Honestly, it was completely irresponsible for him to have company and for him to not warn Grantaire beforehand. Of course, they don’t have each other’s numbers, but that’s beside the point. He could have stopped by the café, or told him yesterday, or maybe rescheduled whatever the hell this meeting was. Instead, Grantaire was standing in the doorway, feeling like an ass as Enjolras looked between him and his guest.

The other man was tall and built, with olive skin and an easy smile. Grantaire might have thought he was attractive, had he not already acquired a distaste for him.

“Who’s this?” the man says.

“I’m Grantaire. Hence why he greeted me as ‘Grantaire’,” he says stiffly.

“Grantaire, this is James. He’s…he’s a friend of mine,”

“Right. Friend,” Grantaire clutches the cup in his hand and feels stupid for the gesture. He takes a sip, so Enjolras doesn’t think he brought it for him, but scrunches his nose at the taste. He hates cream.

There is a pregnant pause, then Grantaire says, “Well I guess I’ll come back some other time,”

“No, wait,” Enjolras’ hand flies out to catch Grantaire’s arm, and he tries not to think about how it made his skin hot. “We were just finishing,”

“We were?” James raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, we were. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,”

James looks at Grantaire. “Oh,” he says, smile fading. “So you’re the real boyfriend, then?”

“What?” Grantaire and Enjolras say in unison, and then both of them are decreeing their own forms of opposition, with some laughter thrown in for good measure.

“No, he’s just—“

“We don’t even get along—“

“He’s _Grantaire_ ,”

James puts his hands up like he’s being arrested. “Alright, alright. I shouldn’t have assumed,” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and Grantaire scowls as his biceps flex. He has very nice arms. He could probably take Grantaire out with one punch. “I guess I’ll leave you to whatever it is you do, then,”

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras promises, and then he’s gone.

The room is strange when the third party leaves. He seemed an intruder at first, but now it is empty and silent, and Grantaire wishes he had made a break for it when he had the chance. Enjolras doesn’t turn around right away.

“Why did he say ‘real boyfriend’?” Grantaire asks when he can’t stand the quiet. Enjolras looks up.

“Did you bring your things?”

Grantaire nods as the blonde goes to sit in front of the mirror. He is solemn and careful, and Grantaire isn’t used to it. He sets his brushes out. Moments pass in which he thinks Enjolras might explain himself, but he doesn’t, and the stillness multiplies.

“So…we’re just not going to talk about that?”

“No,” Enjolras snaps. Grantaire’s brush curls away from his face.

“You’re not going to tell me why he thought I was _dating_ you?”

Enjolras grimaces. And really, the thought of dating Grantaire shouldn’t be so repulsive to inflict a grimace, but there it is, sitting on Enjolras’ face. He scowls and wipes off the powder that he smudged.

“You’d only make fun of me more than usual, so no,”

At that, Grantaire blinks. He nudges Enjolras’ eyes shut.

“I don’t make fun of you that much,”

Enjolras scoffs.

“Okay, well I could promise not to make fun of you for this,”

Enjolras mulls it over while Grantaire dusts gold onto his eyelid.

“I have to date him,” Enjolras says finally. Grantaire only pauses for a fraction of a second, a minimal sacrifice given the news he just received, and then he’s continuing. Enjolras’ eyelids twitch.

“I see,”

“For publicity. They say that my coming out publically three years ago wasn’t enough, that now people want to see me actually being gay, not just saying I am,”

“And you have to give the people what they want, right?” Grantaire bites out.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” he mutters.

Grantaire brushes his thumbs over his handiwork, then begins on the bronzer. This allows for Enjolras’ eyes to open, a decision he immediately regrets. Blue pierces blue, and wars could be fought over who is under more pressure.

“Of course I wouldn’t understand. I, the lowly peasant, has no grasp on the life of an A-list Hollywood king,”

“Stop,” Enjolras demands.

“No, really. How could I possibly know what it’s like to be you? I’m just your five o’clock appointment. You probably think it’s so good of you to give me this time, to let me have the opportunity to be in the same room as you,”

“That’s not what I think of you—“

“No, it’s just how it is,” Grantaire throws his brush back into his bag and stuffs it under his arm. He picks up the unwanted cup of coffee and makes for the door.

“But you _don’t_ understand, Grantaire! I have to do this!”

“Why should I give a fuck what you do? It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re dating him or fake-dating him or fucking him. I come here to practice, that’s it,”

Enjolras had already made it halfway to the door when he stops in his tracks. His eyes are wide, and Grantaire has the unsettling feeling of having kicked a puppy.

Then the feeling is gone, and it’s like he’s lit a fire.

“If it means so little to you, then why don’t you find someone else to practice on?” he spits.

“With pleasure,” Grantaire returns.

When the door shuts, they are both alone. They think they are better for it.


	6. "I think we're supposed to fall in love now."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire almost goes on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Six months later* My loves! I apologize profusely for taking half a year (literally) to update this. I got so caught up in school and other writing, I just couldn't bring myself to work on this when I had absolutely no drive. It's summer now, though, and I'd love to continue this if anyone is still floating around who's interested. Please let me know if you'd like to read more, if you still care about this, or if you have any suggestions! I so appreciate all your feedback. Thank you, loves!

Eponine doesn’t ask Grantaire what’s wrong. Years of working together have taught her the ins and outs of Grantaire Management, including how to detect when he’s upset as opposed to when he’s tired, different coffee to chocolate ratios for his various moods, and when to stay on the opposite end of the counter. Today, she leaves him be.

It doesn’t take long for things to go back to normal, though. Grantaire is resilient. He’s always hated the self-pitying and the inept, so he’s vowed never to let himself fall into a rut too deep to dig himself out of. Within days, he’s back to grinning at customers (when they deserve it) and delivering the usual level of sarcasm to all the rest. Sometimes the assholes remind him of Enjolras, but he’s glad they aren’t him.

“Do you want to come over tonight?” Eponine asks, two weeks after Grantaire last saw the actor.

He shifts some muffins over in the display case and licks his fingers clean from the crumbs. When Eponine swats him with her towel, he doesn’t even flinch.

“To do what?”

“Christ, can’t I ask a friend to hang out without having activities scheduled?”

“Activities are preferred,” Grantaire muses. He glances at a customer who’s just walked in, but the man is nose deep in the menu, so he leans against the counter.

“I’m having some friends over,” Eponine admits. She takes her place behind the cash register, shooting Grantaire a look that says ‘You-should-have-asked-if-he-needed-help’ before asking if the customer needs help. He asks a stupid question about their blended drinks and then takes another five minutes to stare at the same options he had before.

“Is ‘friends’ code for people you want to set me up with?”

“Maybe,” Eponine says slyly, tapping her fingers against the register.

“Come on, Ep. I don’t have time for a boyfriend,”

Eponine smiles at the customer when he decides he’s ready to order, then begins making his drink as Grantaire watches from his perch. “But you’re not hanging out with Enjolras anymore, right? So you have a bunch of free time,”

“I wasn’t _hanging out_ with him. I was practicing for a class I’m taking,”

“Mhm,” Eponine hums, not bothering to look at him. Grantaire watches as she mixes milk and ice and spices without thinking. It’s as if she were born with the innate sense of a barista. “Well anyway, it’s just going to be a few people. You should come,”

Grantaire tells her he’s going to think about it. Come seven, he is standing in front of her dingy apartment door, regret already pooling in his stomach.

“Grantaire! You came!” Eponine says as she swings open the door, as if she’s really surprised. Grantaire is fairly certain she knows everything, and therefore had been planning for him to come the whole time.

“Here,” he says awkwardly, holding out the bottle of wine he brought. He heard somewhere that you were supposed to bring wine to house parties.

“Wow, thank you!” Eponine steps aside and motions him in. “Come in, come in! Guys, this is Grantaire!”

A group of people who are lounging around the tiny living room greet him with nods and waves and a few scattered ‘hey’s. Grantaire straightens his shirt and nods back at them.

“I was just telling them about you,” Eponine explains.

“Oh no,” Grantaire laughs, and a few of them have the decency to join him.

Eponine starts prattling off names that Grantaire won’t remember, pointing out who’s dating and who’s in what business. Grantaire wonders idly where she made this amalgam of friends, who seem to come from every corner of the social universe. And there’s Eponine, in the center of it all, a young barista with too much bite for her own good. Grantaire’s experienced firsthand why people love her, though, so he guesses it all makes sense.

“And this is Jehan,” Eponine finishes. She sounds as if she’s presenting an award. Grantaire smiles at the man, who’s vaguely muscular and has a mess of auburn hair swept neatly into a pompadour. A dusting of freckles falls over his nose, but continues down to his arms until they disappear in the thousands of words tattooed along his skin. Grantaire is always appreciative of a good tattoo, so he gestures toward the man’s sleeves.

“I’ve never seen that before. That’s awesome,”

“Oh, thanks. It isn’t done yet, I still have to get them up to my shoulders. But I like them,” Jehan peers down at his own arms, as if he’s forgotten what was on them. His voice is smooth and masculine, a caramel tenor.

“Well I would hope. You’re kind of stuck with them,”

Jehan laughs something musical. Eponine beams.

“I’ll leave you boys to it, then,” she says, and scampers off to talk to someone named Musichetta. Grantaire watches her go, then shrugs and stands before Jehan, the picture of nonchalance.

The decorated man leans forward. “I think we’re supposed to fall in love now,”

The sentence catches Grantaire by surprise. A rouge blooms over his cheeks before he realizes that Jehan is kidding, a small smile tugging his lips up and painting him mischievous. R laughs.

“I told Eponine not to set me up with anyone,” he sighs, shaking his head.

“No one can reason with Eponine. She’s a force all her own,”

“That’s true,” Grantaire glances around for a place to sit down, but every available surface is occupied. This many people really shouldn’t be able to fit in an apartment this small.

“Here, I can squeeze,” Jehan says, patting the other side of the armchair he’s in.

“Oh, you don’t have to—“

“I insist. Besides, it’ll make Eponine happy to think we’re already laying on each other,” Grantaire appreciates the ease with which Jehan teases. It takes all the pressure off of him and allows him to settle back into the chair, not worried that he’s sending the wrong message or the right message or any message at all. He just sits there and talks to Jehan, who turns out to be a very interesting person. He’s a slam poet, a cat owner, a Breaking Bad fan and a decent chef. He works as a park ranger for a nearby forest preserve. When Grantaire tilted his head in question at his choice of profession, Jehan chuckled and assured him that he knew it wasn’t the most suitable fit.

“I like being outside, though. It gives me time to think, even when I’m doing other things. Mostly I get to just walk around the woods, though. Lift some stuff, chop some logs, you know. Manly stuff,” He flexes as a joke, but Grantaire can see that his job has shaped his muscles into something sculpture-like.

“What about you? What do you do?”

“Oh, I work with Eponine,”

“I don’t believe for a second that your aspirations are to become a professional barista,”

“I can’t say they are, but a job’s a job, you know?”

“So what do you _do_? What makes you happy?” Jehan leans his cheek against his hand and watches Grantaire with patient expectancy.

“Oh, um. I’m studying to be a painter, actually,” Grantaire confides. Jehan sits up straight.

“No. Shit, really? That’s so cool. What kind of work do you do?”

Grantaire tells him about his paintings, about the projects he’s working on now and the pieces he did earlier in the year for his art class. With tactful prompts from the man, he somehow ends up explaining every medium he’s worked with and everything he’s interested in pursuing. It isn’t that Grantaire is secretive about his work, he’s just never had someone interested enough to listen to the whole of it. Jehan sits with rapt attention, nodding and asking questions when called for. It feels good, Grantaire thinks. He can see himself being friends with Jehan. He might even have learned to love him, had he met him under different circumstances. As it is, he’s happy just to sit there and converse.

Grantaire talks himself all the way to Enjolras, explaining how he explored makeup as an art form for a while. That prompts him to recall the story of how he met the actor, and it makes Jehan laugh to hear about Grantaire’s intense indifference toward the celebrity. Grantaire likes making Jehan laugh.

“Wow, so you still practice on him?”

Grantaire looks at his lap. “Ah, no. Not anymore,”

“Oh, why’d you stop?”

Grantaire shrugs. “It just wasn’t worth it anymore,”

It’s not completely a lie. It wasn’t. It wasn’t worth it to sit in Enjolras’ trailer, millimeters from his face, and have indecent thoughts that couldn’t be justified no matter how attractive the man was. And it wasn’t worth it to argue with him over stupid things and watch him date someone he didn’t like and bring him coffee he didn’t want. Grantaire was better off without him.

“Do you still keep in contact?”

“No,” Grantaire returns, and it’s too quick. Jehan pauses.

“Is it because he’s dating that guy now?”

Grantaire furrows his brow. “How do you know about that?”

“I’ll admit, I do, on occasion, read People Magazine,” Jehan confesses. He smiles, and Grantaire knows it is a kind smile, but it feels more like pity.

“No, it’s not because of that. He’s not even really dating him. It’s a publicity stunt,”

“Oh yeah?” Jehan nods thoughtfully. “I never really saw them together anyway,”

Grantaire nods, as if he knows who the other actor is, as if he had the time to analyze their personalities and identify if they were compatible. He just knows he doesn’t like him. Not for any selfish reasons, but because he seemed like an asshole during their brief encounter, and Enjolras was too naïve to date an asshole.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Grantaire decides. “You want one?”

For the rest of the night, Grantaire gets to know some of Eponine’s friends. He likes all of them, he decides. They’re kind and easy to talk with. Mostly, he hovers near Jehan, who is always willing to fill the silence with some sort of anecdote or question. Grantaire feels more interesting around him, and he likes listening to all of his stories.

Eventually, Jehan gets up with finality. “Well, what do you think, Grantaire? Did we manage to fall in love?”

Grantaire gets to his feet as well. “Definitely. I’ll have the wedding invitations printed up tomorrow,”

“Good, I’ll call the caterers,”

They smile at each other, and Jehan goes around to everyone who’s left to say goodbye. Grantaire follows suit, earning a wag of a brow from Eponine when she sees that they’re leaving together. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head softly.

Outside, Grantaire and Jehan stand in between their two cars. It’s cold, but there’s no bite, so the conversation is comfortable.

“I’ve really enjoyed talking to you,” Jehan says, all smile and hands in pockets.

“Yeah, likewise. Even if Eponine is ridiculous, she does have really good friends. I’m glad I met you,”

Jehan nods. “She’s sweet, though. To think of us,”

“Yeah, I guess she is,” Grantaire laughs, thinking of her eager eyes when she introduced him to Jehan. They were twenty shades of hopeful. He was almost sorry to disappoint her.

Jehan raises a hand to card through the back of his hair. “Honestly,” he admits, “I probably would have asked you on a date,”

Grantaire’s brows shoot up. He wasn’t expecting that. He feels something warm in his stomach that kicks him and waits for him to react. It’s flattering, really. Jehan is attractive in every respect, what with his high cheekbones and broad shoulders, his autumnal hair and his freckled nose. He’s witty and talented and easy to be with. The more Grantaire thinks about it, the less reason he sees in rejecting him.

“Oh?” he prompts. “So why don’t you?”

It’s meant to be flirty, a seductive nudge. Grantaire imagines stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Jehan’s muscular shoulders, drawing him close. It would be different, he thinks, but not altogether unpleasant. He might really like it.

“I think maybe there’s someone else you’re interested in,” Jehan says this with a slight shrug and forgiving eyes. Though Grantaire puzzles over who he’s talking about, the poet doesn’t seem angry or sad. He’s speaks gently, like he’s breaking bad news to a child.

“What are you talking about?”

“I just think there are some things you need to work out, and after you do, I’m not going to be the one you’re pining for,” he says.

Grantaire takes a step forward, more defiant than anything. “I had a really good time tonight,” he repeats.

“So did I. Maybe we can hang out some time, be friends,” Jehan offers, scrawling his number down on a stray business card from his wallet and handing it over to Grantaire. The artist looks at it, growing angrier with each passing second. Who is he to tell him who he wants to date? If R is interested in Jehan and Jehan is interested in R, there should be no walls standing in their way. There _aren’t_ any, but the man seems so sure. It’s that surety that sparks irritation in Grantaire, who steps forward and crushes his lips against Jehan’s. It’s needy and rough, and for a moment he feels the poet yield to him, his soft lips slotting between Grantaire’s. They stand there, flush and tangled, feeling for all the world like they’re doing something wrong. After a moment, Jehan pushes the artist back gently and touches a hand to his mouth.

“Grantaire,” he sighs.

“I can decide for myself who I want to date,” R’s hands are still wrapped around Jehan’s biceps, while Jehan’s are resting against his chest. They are heavy there.

“But I don’t want to date you knowing that you’re in love with someone else,”

Grantaire blinks into the darkness. Slowly, he steps away from the other man. “I’m not in love with anybody,”

“I think you’re wrong,”

“I think you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire snaps. Jehan sighs again and crosses his arms over his chest. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“Just…call me if you want to hang out. I do like you, Grantaire. I just…I wouldn’t make you happy,”

With that, he gets in his car and drives away, leaving R buoyed to his spot in the road. He feels angry, but not disappointed as he watches Jehan’s taillights disappear around the corner. There is something frustrating about being told the truth when you had been doing such a good job of denying it until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you'd like to read more, if you still care about this, or if you have any suggestions! I so appreciate all your feedback. Thank you, loves!


	7. "So it's just me you don't like."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.

There are a collection of small instances that span over the course of a long time in which Grantaire sees Enjolras.

 

The first, Enjolras is blown up on an enormous screen, his golden hair all color corrected to perfection (though Grantaire decides he likes it in person more) and his mouth curled around words that are not his. It’s not the movie he was shooting when Grantaire was on set—that one won’t be finished for another few months. Enjolras must have done this one before he met Grantaire.

 

He wasn’t going to do it. He really wasn’t. Grantaire passed the poster every day for weeks before he finally turned sharply into the movie theatre on his way home from work, as if some celestial force had driven him to do so. He didn’t buy popcorn or drinks. He just collected his ticket and sat rigidly in the back of the theatre, which filled quickly.

 

“He’s so fucking hot,” a girl comments. She doesn’t even try to whisper, and no one else seems to mind. Grantaire shifts in his seat and keeps his gaze trained on the screen, where Enjolras is telling some girl that he’ll write to her when she moves to another country. It’s all very romantic.

 

There’s a scene where Enjolras is yelling at his parents, and he gets so fiery and enraged that Grantaire is taken aback. It’s not because he isn’t used to him being like this, but because it’s so…real. He’s strong and passionate and eloquent, and Grantaire knows half of that is the writing and the other half is acting, but _goddamn_. If Grantaire were one of Enjolras’ parents in that scene, he would give him anything he wanted. How could he deny him anything, with fervor like that?

 

Grantaire sits in the theatre, even as the lights come up and the credits begin rolling. He watches as Enjolras’ mono-star-name fades in and out, then keeps watching until the last logos appear on the screen. A bored-looking employee comes in and asks him if he’ll leave so she can start cleaning.

 

 

Two weeks later, it’s Grantaire’s birthday—his fucking _birthday_ , of all days—and he’s sitting in a respectable restaurant with Eponine and Jehan, when none other than the celebrity himself comes walking in, accompanied by his infamous boyfriend. Enjolras is chuckling at something James said and squeezing his hand lightly before letting go and allowing him to pull out a chair for him. Grantaire’s hand clenches around his knife.

 

“Oh shit,” Eponine mutters.

 

“What?” Jehan turns to look at what Eponine is referring to. Immediately, his eyes widen. “That’s—oh. Shit,”

 

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says. “As long as he doesn’t notice we’re here,”

 

“Grantaire?”

 

Of course.

 

Grantaire glances up slowly, as if afraid to see the aftermath of a disaster. And there the disaster is, standing in all his righteous glory and peering down at Grantaire like he expects him to jump out of his chair and tackle him. Instead, Grantaire offers a tight press of his lips and a clipped, “Hello Enjolras,”

 

Enjolras blinks at him, then at his friends, then back to him. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I’m planning the next world war,” he shoots, resolutely looking down at his plate.

 

“Actually, it’s Grantaire’s birthday today!”

 

Grantaire snaps his head up in order to identify the culprit, who turns out to be a grinning Eponine, her chin propped in her clasped hands as she bats her eyes up at Enjolras. He begins contemplating the many different forms of homicide and which will look best on her.

 

“Really?” Enjolras sounds so hopeful. Grantaire sighs.

 

“Yes, really. What, did you think none of us ever celebrated our birth?”

 

There’s a prickly silence which causes Grantaire to tear his gaze away from his plate. He finds Enjolras, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, and he can’t help but be reminded of the scene in the movie. He taps his foot beneath the table.

 

“I thought maybe we could be civil after months of not seeing each other. Clearly that’s not something you’re interested in. I’m sorry for disturbing you. Happy birthday, Grantaire,”

 

Enjolras is walking back to his table and Grantaire does not care one single bit. In fact, he’s happier for it. His evening is more peaceful now that he and his friends are alone. These are the things he tells himself as he takes a resentful bite of his salad.

 

Jehan leans in. “Do you think you could get me an autograph?”

 

Grantaire punches him in the arm.

 

 

Three months after that, it’s the end of the school year and Grantaire is working on his final art project during every waking moment he has. He’s even cut his shifts at the café, which is something he never allows himself to do, for wont of the money. This is important, though. He has to do well on this final so he’ll get an A in the class, and then they might accept him onto the painting track. It’s not that Grantaire particularly wants to go through two or three more years of schooling after he graduates, but nearly all of the students accepted onto the painting track are guaranteed spots in galleries, and that’s not an opportunity he can give up.

 

Grantaire’s final is a series of paintings, each focusing on a different era of history. They each tell the same story—that of the social hierarchy, and how man puts himself above other man. He’s quite proud of it, actually. He’s just stuck on the modern day painting, which at this point is just a blank canvas leaning against the wall of his bedroom.

 

It’s late—too late to be thinking this hard—so Grantaire takes a long swig of beer and pockets his keys, not even bothering to remove the smock he’s been wearing all night. He wanders downstairs and out into the street, where he lights a cigarette and begins walking with no clear destination in mind.

 

He ends up at a diner about 20 minutes away from his apartment. It’s one of those classic greasers with a neon sign in the window saying that they’re open twenty four hours and a small collection of booths pressed up against the glass. Grantaire goes in and drapes himself over a counter stool. He asks for some coffee.

 

“You planning on staying up much later?” the waitress raises an eyebrow, but begins brewing the coffee anyway.

 

“I plan on staying up forever,”

 

“That’s quite a long time,” The voice that responds is not a woman’s voice, so Grantaire glances over at its owner. He shouldn’t be surprised. He really shouldn’t. Running into Enjolras isn’t exactly abnormal, but it still sends Grantaire’s heart into overdrive.

 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says. Enjolras nods toward him, then turns back to his food, seemingly content with ending the conversation there. Grantaire is content to leave it that way too, except he keeps tapping his fingers against the counter as he waits for his coffee. It takes too long for the waitress to set it in front of him, and after denying anything else to eat, he turns back to Enjolras.

 

“Why are you still here?”

 

Enjolras raises a brow. “To be fair, I was here first. If you’re really that uncomfortable by me, then you’re the one who shouldn’t have come in here,”

 

“No,” Grantaire sighs, “I mean why are you still in town? Shooting ended months ago. Don’t you have sunny California waiting for you?”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “Actually, I live in Boston. But they told me to stay here for a while. You know, so I can be with James,”

 

Grantaire takes a long drag from his mug. It’s too hot to drink, but he welcomes the scorch of liquid to throat.

 

“Right. James. How could I forget?”

 

Enjolras pokes at his food. “He’s actually really nice,”

 

“I’m sure he is,”

 

“I know you got off on the wrong foot, but you might actually like him if you got to know him,” Enjolras says, still staring at his plate. Grantaire shakes his head.

 

“So what, are you two actually dating now?”

 

“What? No, why would you say that?”

 

“You’re defending him so much, I just thought—“

 

“No,”

 

“Oh,”

 

“Yeah,”

 

“Okay,”

 

They sit a moment in their own discomfort before Enjolras speaks up again.

 

“Look. I’m sorry that he thought we were dating. I get that that’s a little repulsive to you, but it was an honest mistake and he didn’t mean to insult you by it,”

 

Enjolras looks like he’s just gotten something off his chest—he relaxes in his seat and his face melts into one of ease rather than discord. Grantaire is still trying to understand what he said.

 

“Repulsive?”

 

“You made yourself very clear. Don’t worry. I’m not trying to date you,”

 

Something punches Grantaire in the chest.

 

“I know that,” he snaps. His coffee is almost gone. Where is that waitress when he needs her? He clutches his mug and looks at Enjolras out of the corners of his eyes. “I never thought you were,”

 

“Because a lot of people think that just because I’m openly gay and I don’t mind their company that I’m trying to get with them. And I’m not,”

 

“Got it,” Grantaire mutters.

 

“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t try to get with someone who’s straight,”

 

At that, Grantaire nearly chokes on his last dreg of coffee. He slams the mug down on the counter.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and sets his fork down on his plate. He turns to Grantaire and gives him the privilege of seeing his whole face, bathed in shitty diner light and still looking like it came straight from a fashion catalogue.

 

“I know you’re straight. I’m not going to jump you. You don’t have to be on edge all the time when you’re with me,”

 

“What makes you think I’m straight?”

 

“Well…I mean, you have a thing for Eponine, don’t you?”

 

At that, Grantaire throws his head back and laughs for as long as his stomach will allow. He clutches his ribs, which reminds him that he’s still wearing a paint splattered smock and makes him laugh even harder. This is the most ridiculous situation.

 

“God, no. Eponine scares me,”

 

“Oh,” Enjolras puzzles over this new information. “So you’re…”

 

“Gay. Gay as the day is long,”

 

“Oh,”

 

“Oh,” Grantaire agrees. The waitress finally comes back with the pot of coffee, and Grantaire gratefully accepts another cup. He gulps nearly half of it down instantly.

 

“So it’s just me you don’t like,”

 

Grantaire stares straight ahead, his hands cupped around the mug and his teeth clenching. He doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t want to answer. There’s no good way to tell Enjolras—the same Enjolras who’s just expressed his apparent disinterest in him—that he’s been thinking of him for the past half a year. That he went to see his movie. That he doesn’t like James because James gets to kiss Enjolras and Grantaire wants to kiss Enjolras.

 

So instead, he says, “I guess you could say that,”

 

And Enjolras nods. “Alright,” he says, as if that’s completely fair. He sounds relieved, even, and it dawns on Grantaire that he probably is.

 

“So did you ever finish that stage makeup class?”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “I got an A,”

 

“Good, I’m glad,”

 

“Yeah,”

 

Enjolras sighs and begins pulling some bills out of his wallet.

 

“Listen, there’s this party next weekend for everyone who worked on the movie. You should come,”

 

Grantaire eyes him warily. “Don’t you already have a plus one?”

 

Enjolras pockets his wallet again and shrugs. “I actually meant you’d be invited on your own. I kept your makeup on during shooting some days, so technically, you worked on the film. I’ll make sure your name is on the list,”

 

“Do I get a plus one, then?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras pauses, his hand hovering over his back pocket. He looks perturbed, almost annoyed for a moment before he returns to his task of leaving. He grabs his jacket from the back of the stool.

 

“Sure. Do whatever you want,”

 

“Okay,” Grantaire says.

 

“Okay,” Enjolras says.

 

He leaves with only a nod, and Grantaire can’t help but notice a pattern in their exchanges—without goodbye, as if they know it is not the last time they will see each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry~~~I had to~~~~
> 
> I love you all, thank you for sticking around. Let me know what you think!


	8. "I like the people."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some more, my friends! As always, thank you for reading!

Grantaire doesn’t do tuxes. He doesn’t even remember wearing a tux for his senior prom—the one he attended with his best friend because he wasn’t out yet. He wore a dress shirt and some slacks he bought at a local thrift store. It wasn’t even because he couldn’t afford new ones—he just didn’t care.

Now, however, he’s standing in front of Jehan’s apartment in the suit that Jehan instructed him to wear (“It’s a Hollywood party, you _cannot_ wear that plaid shirt.”). He tugs at it, trying to avoid the omnipresent discomfort that the fabric brings and attempting to figure out why suits have to have _so many parts_.

“Shit,” Jehan says when he steps out of his building. He pauses, keys frozen before their lock, and his eyes sweep over Grantaire. Grantaire shifts, uncomfortable with being appraised so blatantly, and runs a hand through his hair.

“That bad, huh?”

“Bad? Grantaire, you look phenomenal. You’re…wow,”

Grantaire feels the color rise in his cheeks. He casts his eyes downward and nudges Jehan, who’s dressed in a charcoal suit and dark blue shirt, which compliment his eyes.

“So do you,” he says.

“It’s too bad you’re emotionally unavailable,” Jehan grins as he finishes locking the door. “I’d be all over that,”

Grantaire swats him. It’s been a while since he’s stopped trying to deny Jehan’s claims about Enjolras, if only because the alternative requires far too much energy. Jehan goads, Grantaire quietly accepts, and together they almost talk about the way Grantaire’s head hurts when he thinks about Enjolras, but never quite get there.

When they arrive at the party, it’s all low lights and fancy drinks, and Grantaire half expects his name not to have made it on the list. It’s there, though, so he takes Jehan’s hand and pulls him inside, where there are about a million people and none of them look like Enjolras.

“He’s probably just networking,” Jehan squeezes Grantaire’s hand.

“Who?”

Jehan rolls his eyes.

Jehan happens to be a closeted movie fanatic, so every time an actor passes them who looks vaguely recognizable, he clings to Grantaire’s arm and wonders aloud if any of them will talk to him.

“You want a drink?” Grantaire asks, eyeing one of the uniformed waiters who pass them every other minute.

“I don’t drink,” Jehan says simply, and Grantaire wonders why he never noticed. He wants to ask if there’s a reason, but feels it might be in bad form, so he grabs them both sodas and smiles as he hands one over.

“What are you even supposed to do at a Hollywood party?” Grantaire mutters, still looking at people out of the corners of his eyes. It’s strange, being here—observing the wealthy and empowered in their natural habitat. They mill about, smiles hung across their faces, hair pinned up and eyes bright. They chat with each other idly, as if there isn’t a thing in the world that demands their attention, save for the person directly in front of them and the drink pressed into their palm. And they’re all beautiful. Grantaire thinks that maybe you’re not even allowed to work tech in a film studio if you’re not a model, and he feels sorely out of place. Jehan isn’t, though. He sips his cup and smiles at people and looks like he just finished posing for vogue.

“You’re supposed to talk to people,” he replies, taking Grantaire’s hand and squeezing it. Jehan’s good at this—supplying comforting touches precisely when they’re demanded, without so much as a meaningful look to know.

“I don’t know anyone here, though,” Grantaire reasons.

“Yes, you do,”

“Well he’s not here, here,” Grantaire puts eloquently, waving his arm around in explanation. “Besides, he’s probably busy with James,”

Even as the name exits Grantaire’s mouth, he can hear how he must sound. It feels like an insult, like it’s something unclean. He tries with futility to cover it up, but Jehan and his cursed intuition recognize the attempts easily.

“And you’re busy with me, so I guess you’re even,”

Jehan smiles and cups Grantaire’s face with his palm. Grantaire sighs and leans into the touch, allowing the party to disappear for a while. Until he can’t.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras states more than he greets. Grantaire opens his eyes begrudgingly.

“Enjolras,”

James is standing beside Enjolras, one arm slung across his shoulders. Grantaire focuses his eyes on that instead of on Enjolras’ face, which looks disastrously smooth in the low light. He wonders why they’re keeping up the pretense of romance in the enclosed environment, where most people know of its falsehood. He clenches his jaw. This is just excessive.

Jehan’s hand has fallen from Grantaire’s face but slipped around his arm, a protective gesture that makes him feel anchored and secure.

“I don’t think you’ve introduced us,” Jehan says brightly, ever the diffuser of discomfort.

Grantaire snaps his eyes back into focus. “Enjolras, this is Jehan. Jehan, this is Enjolras. And James,” He tacks on the last bit with malice, but James smiles a wide smile and nods toward them both.

“I remember you, from the restaurant,” Enjolras says, albeit a bit stiffly. “It’s nice to meet you,”

Jehan grins and bubbles over. “It’s actually quite an honor to meet you. I’ve seen most of your films. They’re phenomenal, really. Your work is so impressive,”

Grantaire places his hand over Jehan’s and presses, hoping he’ll understand that he didn’t intend for his date to shower Enjolras in praise. Jehan ignores him, but Enjolras’ eyes flick down to the two hands overlapping.

“That’s very kind of you. I’m glad to know they’re not losing their appeal,”

“I’d say you’re growing more popular, if anything. Oh, and James! I’ve seen your work, too. I’ve really loved your most recent stuff, especially,”

James looks surprised, his brows shooting up and his head tilting a bit to the side.

“Thank you,” he says, and it sounds like he truly means it. “That’s very sweet,”

Grantaire has envied Jehan’s abilities as a conversationalist from the first time they met at Eponine’s party. Now, he watches and listens as he puts them to use, asking both Enjolras and James questions and pushing the dialogue toward more common ground. After a while, Grantaire excuses himself to get a drink. It’s only after he’s tracked down a tray-bearing waiter that he realizes he’s been followed.

“Nice party,” Enjolras says, taking a glass of champagne.

“Is it?” Grantaire mutters. He downs his own glass and takes another.

Enjolras looks around the room. He sips, he glances, he takes deep breaths. Grantaire avoids eye contact and drinks excessively.

“So Jehan,” Enjolras broaches.

“What about him?”

“He seems nice,”

“He’s great,”

Both look over at where they’ve left their dates. The two seem actively engaged in conversation and are leaving in so they can hear each other over the noise of the party. Had Grantaire been an innocent bystander, he might assume they were there together. The thought comforts him until he remembers that James is here with Enjolras, and Enjolras is infuriating.

“How long have you been together?”

Grantaire thinks about lying. He really does. He pictures spewing out some number that would accentuate he and Jehan’s fabricated relationship, watching as Enjolras nodded along and most likely decided that Grantaire wasn’t quite as pathetic as he originally thought. People liked Jehan—it was just one of the facts of life, just like the sky was blue and it rained in the summer. He had that enviable quality which draws a person in and makes them feel important. Enjolras would be so impressed and he’d finally receive that assurance that no, Grantaire was not romantically interested in him. It would be so easy. But Grantaire can’t bring himself to say it.

“We’re not,” he says instead, and peers down at his empty glass.

“You’re not?”

“No, we’re just friends. He’s great, but we…no, we’re not,”

Enjolras nods. He looks like he’s trying to solve a difficult math equation in his head, with his brow scrunched up and his lips twisted into a faint frown. Grantaire can’t help but trace every shadow of his face with his eyes. It’s the first time he’s truly let himself look at Enjolras tonight, and it feels so indulgent. He has a blonde eyelash on his cheek.

“How’re things?” Grantaire asks. It sounds almost painful coming out of his mouth, but Enjolras just shrugs and turns back to him.

“Things are alright. I signed onto another movie,”

“Oh, congratulations,”

Enjolras pauses, takes another sip. “It’s in L.A,” he says.

Grantaire forces himself to stop looking at the eyelash so that he can meet Enjolras’ eyes. He knows the bit of information was meant as a casual piece of small talk, but if feels torrential. It feels like the entire room has shifted. The worst of it is that Grantaire knew all along that Enjolras couldn’t stay here forever—didn’t want him to, even. Now, though, it feels as if he’s a fixture in the city, as if he’ll always be at the diner at 2 a.m. in case Grantaire needs to accidentally see him. The city without Enjolras will be empty, and Grantaire will have no one to infuriate and no one to stare at.

“That sounds exciting,” he says.

“It isn’t, really. L.A isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Enjolras swishes the liquid around in his glass.

“At least you’ll get out of here,” Grantaire mutters, thinking of how small his life is, all holed up in one coffee shop and one apartment and one school. He’s never even been to California, let alone out of the country. And here Enjolras is, discussing the boring qualities of one of the biggest vacation destinations in the country.

“I like it here,” Enjolras shrugs.

Grantaire cocks his brow. “Why? I mean, it’s tiny compared to Boston or L.A or wherever you’re used to. We have, like, two restaurants here. The movie theatre only plays two movies at a time. What’s there to like other than the highway out?”

“I like the people,” Enjolras supplies. Grantaire’s head provides a picture of James with his arm slung around Enjolras’ shoulder. In his head, Enjolras is laughing at something James said and leaning into him, just as someone in love might do. Grantaire frowns.

“I’m sure James will follow you wherever you go,”

“James won’t be coming with me,” Enjolras says rather abruptly.

“Oh,”

“He’s filming in England for the next few months,”

“Oh,”

“They’re probably having us break up soon,”

“Oh,”

Grantaire can’t even bring himself to fix his broken record of a voice box. All he can think about is the words “break up” coming from Enjolras’ lips. He says them as if it isn’t a big deal, as if James really is just a publicity stunt constructed by the media in order to exemplify Enjolras’ gayness. That’s always been the claim, but Grantaire has created an entirely different idea of him from the way that Enjolras looks at him and talks about him. Enjolras lets a waiter take his empty glass and stares at Grantaire expectantly.

“Are you going to say anything else?”

Grantaire stares.

“I’m sorry?”

Enjolras frowns and shakes his head. “Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire shrugs. “It’s a break up. It’s sad,”

“It’s not a real breakup. We’re friends,”

“Right,” Grantaire runs a hand through his hair. He forgets that he put gel in it tonight (as per Jehan’s recommendation) and grumbles about the pain it is. Enjolras laughs quietly (a beautiful laugh) and reaches up to pat Grantaire’s hair into place.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says. If he’s a bit breathless, Enjolras pretends not to notice.

“You look nice tonight, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. There’s a gravity to it that Grantaire is pretty sure he’s creating in his own head, but he likes that it’s there. It makes the compliment feel more definite, like Enjolras needed to say it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, glancing up toward Enjolras. He looks at his maroon colored tie and pictures himself using it to tug Enjolras toward him. The thought makes him blush. “You look nice, too,”

Enjolras smiles and Grantaire feels proud to have made him do it. He glances back toward Jehan, but finds that both men have disappeared.

“Where’d they go?” Grantaire mutters. Enjolras follows his gaze and puzzles over the case of the missing dates.

“They probably went somewhere quieter to talk. The balcony, maybe,”

“We should go find them,”

Enjolras agrees and leads Grantaire through the crowd. When they finally step out onto the balcony, they find themselves alone with the city lights. Grantaire goes to the railing and stares out at the buildings, allowing himself a small appreciation for the aesthetic of the city.

“It’s pretty,” Enjolras says. Grantaire nods in agreement. “I really do wish I could stay,”

“I can’t imagine what for,” Grantaire says before he can stop himself. He bites his tongue.

“I suppose you can’t,”

Just then, the door opens and a large man steps out onto the balcony.

“Enjolras, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You weren’t with James,”

“Tom, this is Grantaire. Grantaire, this is Tom,” he says in lieu of responding. Grantaire sticks his hand out awkwardly.

“Ah, so this is Grantaire. I’ve heard so much about you,” the man grasps Grantaire in a jovial firmness. He’s the sort of man who uses two hands to shake, one on top of the other as he smiles two rosy dimples into his cheeks.

“You have?” Grantaire asks.

“Tom’s my agent,” Enjolras says, as if that explains why he knows who Grantaire is.

“Anyway, Enjolras, I need to talk with you about James,” he turns his attention to Grantaire. “Do you mind if I borrow him?”

“Go right ahead,” he grants. It feels like a lie, pretending he’s in any place to allow someone access to Enjolras.

The two men head back inside, and Grantaire is left on the balcony to ponder all the choices he made in his life that lead him to this moment.

Eventually, he goes inside and finds Jehan and James lounging in a corner, still engaged in active conversation.

“There you are!” Jehan grins, tugging Grantaire down to sit beside him—though it’s admittedly more like on top of him. “We’ve been wondering where you scampered off to. Where’s Enjolras?”

“He had to talk to his agent,”

For a moment, Grantaire believes he sees Jehan and James share a look, but then they both turn back to him and he can easily believe that it never happened.

“I see you two haven’t run out of things to talk about,”

“Jehan’s quite the conversationalist,” James smiles, and Grantaire almost feels a twinge of possessiveness before he sees the way Jehan blushes and casts his eyes downward.

It’s sweet, really, so he just pats Jehan’s back and says, “He really is,”

When Enjolras rejoins them, he looks like he’s fallen witness to something morbid. It isn’t exactly a doomed expression, but more of a determined resolution. He sits down on the arm of James’ chair and leans over to murmur something in his ear. James nods, and that’s the end of the exchange.

“I think we’re going to head out,” James says. He directs it toward Jehan, a forlorn look in his eye.

“So soon?” Jehan protests.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Grantaire reaches out and slings his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “We should probably get going soon, too. I need to get started on that final painting,”

“What painting?” Enjolras perks up. Grantaire doesn’t know where his sudden interest is coming from, but he rolls with it.

“My final for school. It’s the last of a collection, but I still need to think of an idea for it,”

“You’ve been working on a collection?”

Grantaire nods. He scratches the back of his head. “Anyway. We should go,”

Watching Jehan get up is one of the saddest sights Grantaire has ever seen. He uses both hands to push himself off the chair, his back curling into a question mark before straightening out. When his eyes come up to meet with James’, Grantaire can see every moment they linked themselves together tonight, every shared look and uttered word. He feels like he’s intruding, looking at all that raw feeling, so he casts his eyes away. He should have been more careful though, because they find Enjolras, who is watching the two with a small smile. Grantaire sighs and decides in that moment that he isn’t going to allow this to be a parting of ways, at least not for good. He cares for Jehan too much to rob him of this opportunity.

“Maybe the four of us can get together sometime before you leave, Enjolras,” he suggests. Enjolras looks puzzled for a moment, and then he nods slowly.

“That would be great,”

“You in?” Grantaire points the question toward James, who grins and nods.

“I think that would be phenomenal,”

The four of them agree that it’s a good idea, and then Enjolras is pulling out his phone from his pocket and handing it to Grantaire, and Grantaire just stares at it for about five seconds longer than one should have to look at a phone to realize it’s open to a new contact. He looks up at Enjolras and blinks.

“Well if we’re going to plan something, I’m going to need a way to contact you,”

“Oh,” Grantaire looks back at the phone. It’s probably the most expensive thing Grantaire’s ever held, and that’s including his great grandmother’s good silver. He pictures Enjolras texting him from it, and feels his own dinosaur of a phone in his pocket. Finally, after an embarrassing amount of time, he types in his number and hands it back to Enjolras.

“Great. I’ll text you,” he says before pocketing the device.

When they go outside, a limo is waiting for Enjolras and James, along with a myriad of photojournalists snapping pictures of the two of them. They smile and nod, but Grantaire doesn’t miss the way James glances over at Jehan, or the way Jehan stares back. He squeezes his friend’s hand and Jehan returns the favor. They watch their boys take each other’s hands, watch them step closer to the limo, watch them draw up next to each other and finally, so easily, they watch them kiss. There are camera flashes and shouted questions. Enjolras’ thumb brushes over James’ lower lip. They wave to the cameras, then get in the limo and close the door, locking themselves away from the prying eyes of the media and the quiet stares of two men who can’t figure out why their hearts are shuddering to an unfamiliar rhythm.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My loves! I appreciate every single one of you! Thank you for all of your lovely comments and all of the time you've spent reading this fic. You truly do make my day.


	9. "They seem happy, don't they?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and critiques! You're all lovely and wonderful, and I hope you have the best day.

_Hey, this is Enjolras._

Grantaire stares at the text. Arriving, it was relatively unobtrusive—just an unsaved number appearing on his screen, nothing noteworthy or shocking. Then he opened it, read it, and kept reading it, as if it might change now that it had been ten minutes.

_Hey, this is Enjolras._

“So…are you going to reply?” Jehan asks, peering over his shoulder. Grantaire snatches his phone out of eyesight and shoots a pointed look at his friend.

“Of course I’m going to reply,”

Jehan puts his hands up in defense. “Alright, alright. Just making sure,”

They’re sitting in Grantaire’s apartment, he with a sketchpad and Jehan with a cigarette, and neither have felt the strong need for conversation for the past few hours. Grantaire likes that about their friendship—half the time they just sit and exist together. It’s relieving not to speak. Grantaire looks down at his sketch of Jehan staring out the window and dangling his cigarette from his fingers. His is a casual beauty, the kind that whispers rather than shouts. It’s the most enticing to draw, what with his soft angles and freckled cheeks. He’s nothing like Enjolras, who is all fierce symmetry and sculpted perfection. Grantaire doubts he could even find a sharp enough angle to recreate his jaw line.

When Grantaire blinks into reality, Jehan is hunched over a device that turns out to be Grantaire’s phone. He lunges, but it’s too late. Jehan laughs and drops the thing into Grantaire’s lap.

“What did you do?” Grantaire demands, scrambling to unlock it.

“Calm down, I was just hurrying up the process. Couldn’t watch you drooling anymore,”

_Hey! It was great seeing you at the party the other night. Did you still want to get together soon?_

“That sounds nothing like me!” Grantaire groaned, throwing his phone on the couch.

“You’re right, it sounds cordial, which is something you might want to work on,”

Grantaire tosses a pillow at Jehan’s head. “I’m plenty cordial,”

“When was the last time you saw Enjolras and didn’t get into an argument with him?”

“That’s different,” Grantaire says, his jaw clenching. “Enjolras is different,”

“Why, because you’re in love with him?”

Grantaire freezes. His arms still, clutching his sketchbook to his chest. His eyes have fallen on some unidentified object as his whole face contorts to one of shock. Slowly, the way one might in the presence of a dangerous animal, Grantaire shifts his gaze to Jehan.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have said that,”

“No, it’s alright,” Grantaire returns quietly.

“It was cruel of me, I just…I don’t know, it just came out,”

“I know,”

“I know you don’t want to talk about it—“

“Because it’s not true,”

Jehan stops. His pale eyes find Grantaire’s as he opens and closes his mouth, unsure of what to say.

“I’m not in love with him,” Grantaire continues. “I actually find him quite irritating,”

“I see,” Jehan says.

“That’s why we always argue,”

“Of course,”

Grantaire nods into the silence, then turns back to his drawing. He shades something that doesn’t need shading. He erases it.

His phone buzzes.

_I enjoyed seeing you, too. I would love to get together with you and Jehan. James seems eager about the idea, as well. Would tomorrow work for you?_

Grantaire has to remind himself that he’s doing this for Jehan, that the whole point of making plans with Enjolras is to allow his friend the opportunity to pursue someone he clearly finds appealing. Jehan doesn’t get enough opportunities like that, Grantaire thinks. He responds.

_Tomorrow’s fine. You all can come to my apartment, if you want._

In return, he gets: _Send me your address?_

After finishing the exchange, Grantaire tucks his phone away and tells Jehan about the plans. There is still a frigid feeling to his words that won’t go away, but he just continues talking as if it isn’t there. Jehan purses his lips every now and then. Grantaire doodles.

“He infuriates me, really,” Grantaire adds at the last moment, as Jehan is gathering his things to leave. Jehan looks at him warily, halfway through putting on his jacket. After shrugging it on all the way, he places a hand on Grantaire’s arm.

“Alright, Grantaire,”

 

Enjolras is sitting on Grantaire’s couch. Enjolras is sitting on Grantaire’s couch. Enjolras is sitting on Grantaire’s couch.

Grantaire himself is somewhere in the kitchen, worrying about the coffee he spilled when he was pouring it into a mug. Personally, he doesn’t think he should be held accountable for the mess, seeing as his mind was in the living room, where Enjolras is _sitting on his couch_. Still, he wipes up the liquid and finishes pouring the coffee, then returns to where Jehan, James, and Enjolras are gathered.

The chairs that Jehan and James are sitting in have gradually turned more and more, and now they’re practically facing each other. Grantaire smiles, happy that the “plan” (if he allows himself to call it that) is working. Of course, that equation leaves two unaccounted for, and he sits down to deal with his excess counterpart.

“You have a lovely home,” Enjolras says, taking the coffee.

“Ah, fuck off, it’s a piece of shit. I didn’t even clean it before you came,”

Lie. Grantaire was up ‘til three cleaning, at which time he stood in the middle of his apartment and groaned to himself about the impossibility of cleanliness when one claims to be an artist.

“Well I like it. It’s warm,”

“I’m glad the temperature of my apartment is to your liking,” Grantaire, a seasoned coffee drinker, downs half his cup in one go. Enjolras holds his like it’s a decoration more than something to be ingested.

After a brief pause, Grantaire notices something on Enjolras’ face. He leans forward slightly, trying to make sense of it. Enjolras pulls back.

“What are you doing?”

Grantaire grins. “Are you wearing mascara?”

Enjolras scowls and Grantaire takes great pleasure in the pink that tickles his cheeks.

“Men can wear makeup too. Honestly, it’s an outdated, heteronormative dogma that subscribes us to the idea that only women should enhance their features,”

And oh, this is sweet—seeing Enjolras bristling, hearing his words grow ever fervent and his glare turn hot. Grantaire hadn’t realized how satisfying that was until it was him who was inflicting it. He grins from ear to ear.

“I just didn’t know you subscribed to the age old dogma that people need to paint themselves to be beautiful,” he counters, calculating the way Enjolras’ eyes narrow and ignoring the shiver that runs up his spine because of it.

“I don’t _need_ mascara to feel beautiful, it’s a form of expression,”

“Right, and what exactly is it expressing?”

“That I felt like doing something different today!”

Grantaire leans forward and takes the mug gingerly from Enjolras’ grasp, worried he might spill it if he makes one more empowered comment. He places it on the table.

“So you’re saying that you didn’t put that makeup on today in order to make yourself feel more attractive,”

“Yes. No, I mean—what does it matter if mascara makes me feel more attractive? Why is it such a bad thing, to want to feel good about yourself?”

“Ah,” Grantaire holds up a finger, an expert in his craft. “And so we arrive at the underlying question, why did you want to feel attractive today?”

Enjolras chokes over a word or two before making a low noise in the back of his throat (God help Grantaire) and pulling back into his original position, which is regrettably not quite as close to Grantaire.

“I was going on a date. With my boyfriend,” he says calmly. Grantaire glances over at Enjolras’ boyfriend, who is laughing jovially at something Jehan’s said, and raises an eyebrow.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, my friend, but I don’t think he noticed,”

Enjolras follows his gaze. Grantaire expects him to get angry or forget what he wants to say, but instead he adopts a small smile as he watches the two men interact.

“They seem happy, don’t they?” he says quietly.

Grantaire nods. “They do,”

Grantaire wishes he could give Jehan something more, could give him the opportunity to be alone with James. Their attraction for each other is almost tangible. It hangs thick in the air and begs to be acknowledged, but Grantaire knows his friend would never do that under his own watchful eye, or if he thought there was any reality to James and Enjolras’ relationship. He schemes.

“I’m such an idiot,” Grantaire begins, standing up. “I forgot to get anything for us to eat,”

“Oh, that’s alright,” James says. “We can just go out for lunch,”

“No, no, no,” Grantaire waves him off. “I’m going to cook for you. I just have to run to the store and get the ingredients,”

“I’ll come with you,” Jehan offers, beginning to stand.

“No, stay. I wouldn’t dare interrupt your conversation. I would, however, take Enjolras hostage and make him come with me,”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, standing up immediately. “Yeah, sure, okay,”

Grantaire smiles and gathers his keys. “Brilliant. We’ll be back soon,”

Grantaire catches Jehan’s eye as he leaves, throwing him the side of a smile. Jehan looks confused only for a moment, and then understanding settles on his face, accompanied by a delicate blush that Grantaire delights in.

“What are you making?” Enjolras asks, once they’ve reached the store.

“No idea,”

“Do you even know how to cook?”

“Not a clue,”

Enjolras muffles a laugh as he grabs something from a shelf as they pass it and throws it into the cart. Grantaire scowls and looks down to find a package of rice noodles lying offensively by themselves.

“Let’s not get fancy, here. I was thinking more along the lines of instant lasagna,”

“I’ll cook,” Enjolras shrugs and grabs another item (soy sauce), as if it’s a task they were auctioning off and he doesn’t mind bearing the brunt of it. Grantaire stares at him.

“And I’m supposed to believe you know how to cook,”

“I do live on my own. It’s kind of a necessity,”

“Oh please, I’m sure you have the means to hire a private chef. I doubt you’ve ever used a spatula correctly,”

Enjolras throws the next item (a bag of peanuts) into the cart with greater force, but he doesn’t stop to look at Grantaire when he says, “Think what you like, but seeing as you won’t be serving a decent meal, it’s up to me. And I’m going to cook,”

Grantaire grumbles a bit more, but doesn’t put up a fight for the rest of their stroll around the store. Even when Enjolras pushes him aside and takes over the cart, he just follows slightly behind and watches as Enjolras maneuvers artfully through the aisles. It is one of Grantaire’s deepest regrets that Enjolras actually seems to know what he’s doing.

Once they’ve finished, it’s only been half an hour, and Grantaire doesn’t feel that’s a sufficient amount of time to give two people who have the potential to fall in love. He pulls into a small parking lot and stops the car.

“Detour?” Enjolras asks. The sky has turned gold in its quiet afternoon, and Grantaire hates the way the light settles on Enjolras’ hair, as if it’s threaded into it. He taps the steering wheel with resolution, then gets out.

“I don’t think we’re due back quite yet,” he explains. Enjolras repeats his actions, even when Grantaire hops up onto the hood of the car and sits. They both stare at the city.

“They do seem good together, don’t they?” Enjolras says into the nothingness. Grantaire nods.

“You seem awfully calm with the idea of setting your boyfriend up with another man,”

“He’s not really my boyfriend,”

Grantaire laughs and flicks a leaf from the hood. “Sure,”

Enjolras frowns. “I told you he wasn’t,”

“I know you did,”

“Then why are you acting like I’m lying?”

Grantaire leans back on the car, his spine curving to the metal, and pillows his hands beneath his head. It is effortless to be distraught, he thinks. It is so much harder to be happy.

“So what happens when you leave?”

Enjolras nods and rests his hands behind him so he can lean on them. “We’ll be over by then,”

“So you just break up and part ways? No big dramatic finish? No feigned reason?”

Enjolras shrugs. He turns so that he can look Grantaire in the eyes, but that makes Grantaire feel like he’s on fire, so the contact is broken almost immediately. Enjolras shifts so that he’s lying down beside Grantaire.

 _This is distressing_ , Grantaire thinks.

“We don’t really need one. They’ll ask us about it in interviews and everything, so we’re just saying it was a clean, mutual breakup. Nothing huge,”

“But the fans want _scandal_ ,” Grantaire teases.

“They can find it somewhere else,”

They lay there for a while. Grantaire shuts his eyes and tries to pretend he isn’t as close to Enjolras as he is. Enjolras stares at the clouds. The moment could be picaresque, but neither is lucid enough to notice.

“What do you think? Have we given them enough time to fall in love yet?” Grantaire asks after a particularly strong gust of wind rouses him from his pseudo nap.

“I’d say an hour is pretty standard, as far as falling in love goes,”

“Sounds about right,”

Grantaire hops down from the hood of the car with ease. He watches as Enjolras pushes himself toward the ground, then holds out his hand to offer assistance. The result is a clumsy Enjolras stumbling onto a nervous Grantaire, at which point their chests are practically pressed together and Grantaire swears he can feel Enjolras’ heartbeat through his shirt. He steps back quickly, refusing to allow the moment to fester, and sees a touch of color fade from Enjolras’ cheeks as quickly as it appeared.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says.

They don’t speak for the duration of the ride.

When Grantaire opens the door to his apartment, he barely has time to step through the doorway before he’s met with a sight that drains the color from his face in one fluid second. Jehan is pinned beneath James, his back arched up into him and his hands cupping his cheeks. They’re kissing like they’ve never known air, completely enraptured by each other. Enjolras stumbles into Grantaire from behind, not expecting him to stop short as quickly as he did. Grantaire has enough sense to take action. He turns around, pushes Enjolras into the hallway, and shuts the door as quickly and as quietly as possible.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras demands.

Grantaire presses his back up against the door, then addresses Enjolras with a bright smile and tilt of his head.

“How about we go to yours?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was sort of just in my head and I wanted to get it out, but I'll write more if anyone actually cares about it!


End file.
